


The Only Worse Thing

by Miri1984



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Jonah Exists in RQG Universe, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Oscar needs information, Voyeurism, Warlock!Jonah, beholding kink, dubcon, eventually any way, i guess, i guess?, so does Jonah, what's the best way to get it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23955826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: Oscar Wilde is used to being beheld, but this is something quite, quite different.
Relationships: Jonah Magnus/Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

Oscar Wilde is very used to being the centre of attention. He enjoys the feeling of eyes on him - of heads turned in his direction, of the impact of his words, his actions, his appearance, being palpable in the room around him.

He likens it to the feeling of soft fingers or lips on his skin. It warms him, covers him like a blanket and obscures his true purpose at gatherings such as these. It is all too easy to observe when one is the focus of other’s observation, and he relishes the times he is able to dip his toes into society such as this. Forever the outsider. Watching, but also, forever watched.

Given all of this, it shouldn’t be a surprise when he looks up from where he is sipping champagne and sharing witticisms with Lord Albrecht of Austria, to see a pair of shapely grey eyes fixed on his face. 

It should not be a surprise to be caught in their gaze. He is dressed in peacock green tonight, with an orange cravat and purple shoes, his waistcoat dotted with pearl buttons and the tail of his frock coat hemmed in the finest silk. He knows the cut of the cloth accentuates the slimness of his waist and the curve of his ass (he spent a good few minutes admiring that himself before descending to the carriage which brought him to this gathering). It should not be a surprise that those grey eyes, once they have met Oscar’s own, rake down his form and back up again, the slightest twitch of a dark, thinly curved eyebrow indicating… something. Regard? Admiration? 

It should not be a surprise. And yet.

Oscar finishes his story, eyes slipping away from the figure and faltering slightly in his retelling. Lord Albrecht and his lackies laugh uproariously despite Oscar’s dissatisfaction in his performance - not sophisticated enough to understand how it is lacking. When he looks up again the figure has moved to the corner of the room where the drinks are being served. 

Oscar makes a decision, downs the rest of his champagne and moves to join him.

The man turns to face him as he approaches and Oscar is momentarily struck by the contrast between the two of them. While Oscar Wilde is, as always, flamboyantly and startlingly dressed, this man, slightly shorter than Oscar, is dressed almost aggressively plainly. Oh, the cut of his suit is expensive - in a deep, inky black, with polished silver buttons and a matching waistcoat. It has been beautifully tailored to show off the man’s slender figure, but it is starkly without adornment. This, in turn, is reflected in his face, a thin blade of a nose, elegantly curved, sharp jaw, thin, yet mobile lips that are currently curved in a sardonic smile. His hair is as jet black as his suit and slicked sharply back from a high, pale forehead.

Equally pale, long fingered hands pass Oscar a glass of champagne.    
“Mr Wilde,” he says, and his voice is low and smooth and rich, sending a pleasant shiver down Oscar’s spine. 

Oscar takes the glass, allowing his own fingers to brush those of the man. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” he says. 

“Oh, most certainly,” the man replies. “But it needn’t last long.” Those mobile lips curve in a more genuine smile and he proffers the hand that is not holding his own drink. “Jonah Magnus, at your service.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. He’s heard of Magnus, of course. Indeed the name has come up in several meritocratic briefings. There is a darkness surrounding the man, rumours of forbidden magics, although outwardly he presents as nothing but a simple collector of manuscripts - most of them not even magical in themselves.

“What brings you to this gathering, Mr Magnus?” Oscar asks.

Magnus’ lips twitch and his eyes flick downwards and then back up to Oscar’s. “The same thing that has brought so many others,” Magnus says, waving his hand to indicate the gathered flotsam and jetsam of London high society. 

“Oh?”

Magnus leans forward, conspiratorially. “You, of course.”

Oscar feels himself flush, but is confident that any change in the hue of his skin will go unnoticed in the dim light of the drawing room - or be attributed to the alcohol - as he sips at his champagne. He is unconscionably pleased that Magnus has admitted to wishing to see  _ him.  _ Something about the man’s steady regard is utterly captivating. 

“I have heard of your institute, of course, Mr Magnus.”

“Please, call me Jonah,” he says. “We are both scholars, and gentlemen of equal standing here.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been described as a scholar before,” Oscar tilts his head, wondering if he should take the invitation Magnus has given and deciding rather quickly that it is not the only thing he he would like the man to offer. “Jonah.”

“Surely, as a writer of some renown, you have also had occasion to study literature, Mr Wilde.”

“I try very hard not to read anything I have not written myself,” Oscar says, smirking. “And you must call me Oscar. Gentlemen of equal standing, after all.”

The thought amuses Oscar more than it should. There is not much information about Jonah Magnus’ family or background, and Oscar has made certain his own past is similarly shrouded.

They were possibly more alike to each other than they were to anyone else in this entire room.

“I find that very difficult to believe, Oscar,” Jonah says, and he pronounces Oscar’s name like it is some delicious treat to be savoured, vowels rounded and consonants sibilant. “You must keep abreast of your literary rivals, at the very least. And I’m sure your work as a journalist means you are required to do  _ some _ reading.”

Oscar tilts his head, a magnanimous acknowledgement, noting as he does that Jonah is actually a full few inches shorter than he. Strange, that he had seemed taller in the distance. “Well, one must always suffer some inconvenience for the sake of art, mustn’t we,” he says. “You yourself are a collector of words, or so I hear.”

“I am indeed,” Jonah replies. “Although I do tend to prefer words of fact rather than of fiction.”

“Yet your library focuses on the supernatural - on magic and mystery.”

Jonah hums, a pleased sound. “You’re familiar with our work, then.”

“Magical knowledge is dangerous,” Oscar says, then realises this is something a meritocratic agent would be far more like to say than an hedonistic playwright. A glance at Jonah’s face finds it inscrutable, and Wilde finds himself in danger of being captivated by those piercing eyes. Instead, he allows his lips to curve in a seductive smile as he leans forward. “And I enjoy dangerous things,” he says, and drops his eyes to Jonah’s delightfully expressive mouth once again, before slowly moving back up to meet Jonah’s gaze.

He is gratified to note that the grey in those eyes has been swallowed, somewhat, by black, and they do not blink. 

Wilde  _ shouldn’t _ be surprised, he keeps trying to remind himself of that, yet being looked at… no…  _ beheld  _ by Jonah Magnus feels like an entirely new sensation, something far richer than the casual regard and indifferent attention he is so much more used to receiving.

He licks his lips. Sips at his champagne. Lady Starling hasn’t exactly given him a brief, to find out as much about Jonah Magnus as is possible, but Oscar is, after all, an independent agent, trusted to follow his own leads in the field. And information is always valuable.

“This party is somewhat crowded,” he says, guardedly. “But I would very much like to continue our conversation, if you have the time and the inclination.”

Jonah flashes a smile, brief, incandescent, lighting up his eyes with mischief and interest. It is gone as soon as it manifested, however, leaving Wilde to wonder if it had been a trick of the light.

There had been something feral in it. Something needy and sharp.

He feels the slightest tingle of fear in the pit of his stomach, and bites his bottom lip unthinkingly to halt the sharp intake of breath it provokes.

He feels a soft touch on the hand that is not holding his champagne and glances down to see Jonah lightly brush his fingers up to Oscar’s wrist, resting there for a second.

“That would be delightful, Oscar,” Jonah says.

* * *

They take a carriage to Jonah’s apartment. The suggestion is Oscar’s - if he is to gather information about Jonah he will find it easier in his own environment, and Oscar’s apartment in London is something of a sanctuary for him. Had he known he would be taking part in a seduction he might have arranged for temporary accommodation for himself but this particular soiree had been nothing but an opportunity for socialising, for maintaining the illusion that was Oscar Wilde, satirist, poet and playwright. Dandy and fop.

A small thrill of worry courses through him, as they ascend the stairs to Jonah’s rooms. There are rumours about Magnus’ private life. A scandal surrounding a young architect, an ongoing dalliance with a “independent sea trader” but none of his assumed partners have been as publicly known as Oscar, or moved in the same circles.

In short, this is out of character, from what little they know of him. 

Oscar’s eyes linger on the curve of Jonah’s spine as he mounts the stairs of his somewhat modest boarding house. The man is not wealthy. He has little influence.

It is lucky that Oscar’s whims when it comes to bed partners are, to the general public at least, utterly random. His promiscuity will offset Jonah’s pickiness, something that Oscar has, for various reasons, relied upon in the past.

Jonah unlocks the door to his rooms, and opens it, waving Oscar through. Oscar steps inside - it is utterly dark - and hears the sound of Jonah fiddling with the lights.

The low hiss of the gas igniting is followed by a dim glow that gets steadily brighter, the room coming into focus for Oscar. 

It is wall to wall books. Oscar can feel the tingle of magic coming from them, they feel like something alive, as though every single one of them is living and breathing and focusing their attention on him. Oscar steps into the room as Jonah turns to face him, and Oscar thinks for a moment that he can see an eye, lidless and terrible, seated in the middle of that pale, smooth forehead, staring  _ through  _ him.

“Mr Wilde,” Jonah Magnus says, and all trace of warmth and flirtation has gone from his voice. Still, Oscar feels a pleasurable tingle all the way down his spine. “My patron has questions for you.”


	2. Chapter 2

He should be terrified. He is, he supposes, on a base level, but there is a much, much greater part of him that is simply intrigued, and not a small part that is more than that.

“Patron?” Oscar says, keeping his voice light. “I was given to understand your institute was self funded - or helped along with generous donations from the interested public.”

Jonah cocks an eyebrow. “It is not necessary to maintain the pretense that you are ignorant of magical matters, Mr Wilde.”

“I thought we’d moved past surnames, Jonah,” Oscar says, allowing a note of petulance into his voice. He’s rewarded with a spasm of anger passing across those refined features, and Jonah raises one hand. Power crackles across it. Oscar can’t help himself, he smirks, and raises an eyebrow. “So. You have a patron of another sort then?”

“Not quite the feckless dandy everyone believes you to be, Mr Wilde?”

“Come now, Jonah,” Oscar says, drawing the name out slowly and seeing the other man’s eyebrow twitch in irritation. “No one could possibly be the feckless dandy everyone supposes I am. Who on this earth could ever have that kind of energy?”

The power in Jonah’s hand fades and he lets it fall to his side, eyes narrowing. “Hence the reason my patron has questions.”   


Oscar spreads his hands, allows his smile to become lascivious. “By all means, let your patron ask them.”

Jonah’s eyes, once again, show something of the interest Oscar had seen at the party. He steps forward, head tilting to one side, lips curved in an almost smile.

“You don’t fear what he might ask?”

Oscar doesn’t bother to hide the shiver that runs through him as Jonah approaches. “On the contrary,” he says. “I fear… many things. Perhaps, though, your patron should fear the answers I might give.”

“He drinks in all knowledge,” Jonah says, and steps forward again, close enough now that Oscar can feel the heat from his skin. “Nothing is beneath his gaze. And he enjoys fear.”

Oscar smiles. “Well then,” he says, lowering his voice, and dipping his head towards Jonah’s. “That makes two of us.”

A frown appears on that smooth, high brow. “Did you still believe I have brought you here for the purposes of pleasure, Mr Wilde?”

“I’m going to assume you prying knowledge out of me for the glorification of your patron will at least amuse you  _ somewhat,  _ else truly, what is the point of having one in the first place?”

“I do not serve for those purposes,” Jonah snaps.

Oscar allows himself a sigh, a glance up and down Jonah’s form, and a sly smirk. “That  _ is  _ a shame.”

Jonah murmurs a word under his breath and his hand shoots out, gripping Oscar’s hair at the nape of his neck and yanking him downwards with shocking strength. Oscar doesn’t struggle, instead folding down to his knees with the grace of long practice. This is a familiar game, one he’s played before, and one that he enjoys.

Even - or perhaps especially - when the stakes include his very life.

Jonah tips his head back, exposing Oscar’s throat to his gaze. Those eyes - Oscar can’t believe that he ever thought they were grey and colourless - roam over him like a caress and he feels himself respond, his prick twitching and swelling in his trousers. 

Biology, it seems, is on his side tonight.

“I can smell your fear,” he says.

Oscar wets his lips. “And this is a new cologne,” he says, and earns a sharp yank to his hair that makes his eyes water.

“It feeds him,” Jonah says. “But it is not all that he craves.”

“No?”

“He wants to  _ know,”  _ Jonah says. “So you will tell him. Everything.” Jonah’s free hand raises and Oscar feels the tingle of magic once more - dark, coiling tendrils of power of a kind he has only encountered once or twice in his not-so-short life.

“We really could be passing the time so much more pleasantly,” he says. Jonah glances downwards.

“Truly?” he says, taking in Oscar’s state and Oscar shrugs. 

“I have a reputation,” he says, and licks his lips, “to  _ up _ hold.”

Jonah gives a short, sharp laugh and Oscar sees his tongue dart out. He leans in, presses his lips to Oscar’s in the lightest and driest of kisses, then pulls back to murmur the words to a spell that Oscar does not recognise.

Power hits him and he lets out a short, sharp gasp of pain, feeling the impact of the magic inside his head like grasping fingers, sorting through memories and images pushing against barriers. He bucks in Jonah’s grip, bites at his lips to stop from crying out as the fingers sift and discard and pull apart… again and again meeting the walls in his mind that the meritocrats have given him.

Eventually Jonah snarls and throws him back, leaving him sprawled on the floor.

“Well,” he says, slightly out of breath. He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt and pulls down his waistcoat as he stands up fully, regarding Oscar where he lies. “I suppose that answers the most pressing of my patron’s questions.”

Oscar props himself up on his elbows, and crosses his ankles over each other. “Which was?”

“Whether or not you were a meritocratic agent,” Jonah says. Oscar spreads his palms, but knows better than to give any indication that Jonah is correct. At this stage, despite his exposure, Oscar can safely say he knows more about Jonah than Jonah knows about him. He is winning at this particular game, and he suspects that Jonah knows it.

“Force is never the most reliable way to gain information,” Oscar says. “I much prefer other methods. For example, in my experience, sometimes it helps to simply  _ ask.” _

“You would tell me everything, then,” Jonah says, and his lips are curved in an almost fond smile.

“Almost certainly not,” Oscar says, and he pushes himself up off the floor, dusting his trousers as he gets to his feet. His erection has somewhat flagged - pain is not always something that contributes to his libido, especially when it comes with invasion of his consciousness - but he is still intrigued. “But there is no reason why we couldn’t discuss this in a civilised manner, rather than simply attempting to rip information from an unwilling source.”

“A civilised manner?”

“Or an uncivilised one, if you would prefer,” Oscar smiles. Smacks his lips. “I know I would.”

Jonah folds his arms over his chest, half smiling, half frowning. 

“What exactly do you propose?” he says, and Oscar takes a step bringing himself into Jonah’s space, reaches out, slowly, and brushes a knuckle over the sharp plane of Jonah’s cheekbone.

“An exchange,” he says, then leans further forward. Jonah does not pull back or flinch, and Oscar can hear his breath come a touch faster. “I’ll show you mine,” he says, right against the shell of Jonah’s ear, “if you,” he lays a gentle kiss against its lobe, “show me yours.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jonah doesn’t hesitate. He fists one hand in Oscar’s hair and jerks Oscar’s head back, hissing as he draws in a breath, then descending on Oscar’s bared throat with his lips and his tongue. It’s delightful - the sharp tug of Jonah’s fist and the scrape of his teeth along the skin on the underside of his jaw, but more than that, the feeling of Jonah’s body straining against him.

He might have appeared disdainful, but Oscar can feel him, hot and hard against his hip.

“You want this,” Oscar breathes, then gasps as Jonah’s free hand wraps around his throat.

“You don’t talk,” Jonah says. “Not unless I ask a question.”

“What if  _ I…”  _ Oscar begins but Jonah’s hand, shockingly strong, squeezes and Oscar’s words are cut off, along with his air. It hurts, a sweet, bruising pain that continues for long enough for lights to start going off behind his eyes and Jonah dips his head and licks a line up Oscar’s neck, behind his thumb, ending at his ear, which he sucks into his mouth, then bites, teeth far sharper than Oscar would have thought.

His cock is fully hard again, straining against his pants and he resists the urge to scrabble at Jonah’s hand around his neck, to try to fight his way free. Instead he goes limp - not limp enough to fall, but enough to show Jonah he understands. Enough to let the man know he will - at least for now - behave.

The pressure around Oscar’s throat eases, and he feels Jonah hum against the skin of his neck, just below his ear. 

“Good,” he says, and Oscar feels that frission of pleasure over him at the praise.

Part of him laughs at himself, that he can be so easily manipulated into pleasure. A deeper part of him hums with satisfaction.

Control, he knows, even during sex, is an illusion. And Oscar Wilde is a master of illusion.

Jonah shoves him backwards and Oscar rocks, not falling as he would have done had he been tensed against it, simply letting his body sway back. He stays on his knees, arms loose by his sides, and looks up at Jonah, whose eyes are fixed on his face, lips parted and wet.

There is another shadow over Jonah’s brow, a hint of that third eye. Oscar’s vision is still blurry from having his air cut off and he can almost make out the colour of it.

“Strip,” Jonah says. “Let us see all of you.”

Oscar does as he is asked. He has always been comfortable with his naked body, is not ashamed or embarrassed to flaunt it, but there is something different about doing it under Jonah’s gaze. Each piece of clothing is catalogued by those grey eyes as it falls, each button underneath his fingers feels somehow more detailed, more real and tactile than it ever has before. He imagines he can feel the individual threads of silk in his shirt as it slithers to the ground. When he hooks his fingers under the waistband of his trousers, dips them down, allowing his cock to slip free, knowing that it is engorged and eager, he feels more naked than he has ever felt in his life, stripped bare, beheld.

It’s terrifying. 

It’s delicious.

The slide of fabric across his cock is a delicious temptation and he smooths his hand along it as he lowers his trousers to the floor and steps out of them, the last piece of his clothing to go. 

“Turn,” Jonah says, and Oscar is sure he can hear something else along with his voice, something… deep and rumbling, something completely other. 

He turns, slowly, well aware of the usual effect he has on his partners. When he comes back around to face Jonah, the other man’s lower lip is caught between his teeth, and when Oscar glances downwards, he can see the bulge in his trousers.

He cannot help a small smile, at that.

“Kneel,” Jonah says, and Oscar does, resting his hands on his thighs and looking up at Jonah. The eye, the one that Oscar thought he’d seen in Jonah’s brow, opens again.

At first Oscar cannot place its colour, and then, as he feels the force of its gaze sink into his very bones, he realises it is the exact shape and shade of his own.

He gasps. Feels again that pressure that Jonah used to rifle through his thoughts, but this time it does not seek entrance, it simply lies over his mind like a blanket, wraps around his consciousness like a second skin. He’d thought he was being observed before, but this… this…

It is as though they eye knows every beat of his heart, every molecule of air in his lungs, every drop of saliva gathering under his tongue. As though the eye is touching every part of him, inside and out.

He lets out a whimper. Feels his cock jerk in desperate eagerness to be touched, not just  _ known… _

“What do the meritocrats want with me?” Jonah asks, and his voice is overlaid with that deeper, darker sound, that rumbling, hissing background that makes Oscar think of lightning elementals, power and hunger.

He draws in a breath to answer. “Honestly?” he says. “Nothing.”

The eye blinks, and Oscar gasps as he feels…  _ squeezed.  _ “Nothing?” Jonah says. 

“Now if you’d asked what  _ I  _ want with y…”

Jonah’s hand snaps forward and grasps his throat again. “You are not here simply for  _ yourself,”  _ he says. Oscar swallows, trying not to lean into Jonah’s touch. He aches to feel that pressure around his windpipe again. 

“I am  _ never anywhere  _ just for myself,” he manages to gasp out, eyelids fluttering as yes…  _ yes  _ Jonah’s grip tightens. He lets out a moan, hips tilting forward. The sensations coursing through him, the pressure on his mind, on his throat, they’re pooling into a tight coil of heat, the tingle of fear across his skin more arousing than the caress of a hand or a tongue. 

“So why are you  _ here?” _

“Give me something,” he gasps out. “Give me something that I want and I will give you  _ answers.”  _ he reaches towards Jonah, hands grasping at the sleeve of his jacket, sliding towards his crotch.  _ “That was the deal.” _

Jonah snarls, lets go of Oscar’s neck and his hands fly to his trousers, roughly opening them, pulling out his cock - hard and glistening at the tip.

“Do you think you have the power to deal with the Eye?” he asks - but it’s not Jonah asking this time, and Oscar is certain of it.

“Deals are the only things your kind understands,” Oscar croaks out, before Jonah’s hand is in his hair again, yanking him forwards.

Oscar goes eagerly.

“This is what you want?” Jonah says as he uses his free hand to wipe the head of his cock around Oscar’s mouth, across his cheeks. Oscar allows himself to smile, then nods, letting his draw drop, inviting Jonah in.

Jonah takes the invitation.

Oscar lets his eyes close, feeling the weight and warmth of Jonah in his mouth. He can feel the twitching of his cock against his tongue, the desperation of Jonah in the clenching of his fingers in his hair. The touch of something other - of something inside or near Jonah - whatever force is giving him his magic - still surrounds him, like an embrace.

Oscar opens his throat as Jonah thrusts, lazily at first, then with more urgency. And as Oscar relaxes the muscles of his throat, he allows himself to drift, to let aspects of the entity that gives Jonah his power slide underneath barriers. 

He lets the eye… in.

“I know you,” Jonah says, breath fast and heavy as his hips move. “I  _ know  _ you Oscar Wilde. I know your… beginning I can… ah… I can see your pain, your anguish. I see how you came to be who you are.”

Oscar works his tongue against the underside of Jonah’s cock, brings up his hands to cup his ass. He cannot speak, and that is to his advantage right now.

“You work for the meritocrats because you are afraid,” Jonah is saying now, and Oscar cants his eyes up to see Jonah’s head thrown back, the column of his throat glowing golden in the lamplight. He’s beautiful. “You are uncertain, unsure of your masters. You believe in nothing. In  _ no one.” _

Oscar swallows around him and Jonah’s hips judder as he comes in hot spurts down Oscar’s throat. Oscar pulls his hips close to him, keeps him as still as possible as he jerks and groans through his release, then finally pulls off and sits back on his heels. The touch of Jonah’s patron fades, as Jonah’s pleasure has disrupted any precision that he could have brought to bear on Oscar’s specific memories.

Oscar smooths one hand over his own cock, but does not grasp it or attempt to bring himself to completion. Simply watches, fingers idly tracing up and down himself, keeping himself on edge, but not tempted to anything more.

Jonah sucks in a breath, then tucks himself away again, smoothing one hand over his hair. When he sees what Oscar is doing, he tilts his head. 

Oscar shrugs. And smiles, his fingers still lightly dragging up and down his cock. “I believe that concludes our transaction,” he says, but does not move to stand.

Jonah raises an eyebrow. “You do not find yourself… wanting? Mr Wilde?”

Oscar allows himself to squeeze a little, pump once, twice, arch his back and enjoy the sensation of flesh pressed against flesh.

“Are you willing to let me go, Mr Magnus?” he asks. 

Jonah leans against the high backed whicker divan behind him, tilting his head and crossing his arms over his chest. “Would you… be inclined to give me a little something… for free?”

Oscar rolls his hips into his fist again, dropping his free hand to the ground behind him so he can arch his back as he fucks himself. 

“Would you like me to dirty up your beautiful carpets,  _ Jonah?” _

Jonah leans forward a little, eyes raking over Oscar so intensely that even without the touch of his patron, Oscar shudders.

“Finish for us,” he says softly, and Oscar closes his eyes, and feels the blanket of beholding wash over him again, and comes.

* * *

The aftermath is remarkably civilised. They are both gentlemen, after all. Jonah offers Oscar water to wash up, helps him on with his coat. He smooths Oscar’s cravat down and tucks it into his waistcoat with a touch of domestic care.

“Your patron is dangerous,” Oscar says to him.

“Of course he is,” Jonah replies. “But then again, so are the meritocrats.”

Oscar smiles. “Of course they are.”

“We all find power in our own ways,” Jonah says.

“So long as that power is not used against me, or mine,” Oscar replies, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from Jonah’s shoulder, “it is not my business.”

Jonah hesitates, at the doorhandle. “Perhaps,” he says, without turning, “we could see each other again?”

Oscar feels the warmth of success settle in his gut, as well as a smooth curl of desire. “Perhaps,” he says, and Jonah opens his door, and Oscar returns to the world. A little more relaxed. A little better informed. 

And very satisfied.


End file.
